


more to life than struggle

by Dialux



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blind Date, Brother-Sister Relationships, Confessions, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Future Fic, Locked In, Marriage Proposal, Sister-Sister Relationship, for the rest of my life i'm gonna quote heather dale for this ship, i am absolutely hilarious i know, the working title of this goddamn fic was trope it all up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-23 12:28:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9657476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dialux/pseuds/Dialux
Summary: The White Walkers have been defeated; the North is steadily rebuilding. Jon and Sansa are trying to find a life for themselves after years spent just surviving, but that is... easier said than done.And then, of course, Arya interferes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I am notoriously bad at prompts, but Eolas told me that I couldn't possibly write a fic that incorporated rom-com cliches, and I live to be spiteful, so here we are. This also serves as my submission for the jonxsansafanfiction Valentine’s Challenge, Days 4, 6, 12, 13, and 14, because I am nothing if not two-bird-with-one-stone lazy. 
> 
> Resultantly, this is- essentially- pure fluff, but it's got some angst sprinkled throughout as well, because I cannot, in fact, do only romance. Also, come scream at me on dialux.tumblr.com ! I'm always happy for new friends.

_i need you to remind me of the light we bear within/that there's more to life than struggle/and the things we seek to win_

_-_ "As I Am," by Heather Dale

...

**i. blind date/set up**

Summer had come, perhaps, and with it life; but at least in the winter, Sansa hadn’t had many marriage proposals. The Lords were more invested in taking care of their own keeps when their people were freezing to death in the streets; even the Vale soldiers had left the North once it became clear how cold the land would get, and Petyr had gone with them. But once Jon and- everyone _else-_ had defeated the Walkers, and once the sun had risen and stayed like that, the men flooded into Winterfell by the thousands, all hoping to wed Sansa.

Sansa or Arya, in point of fact. Arya had right near skinned the first man and had been in the process of gelding the second when Jon stopped her- and after that, Gendry had been there to quietly threaten them into terrified silence. 

Mostly, the suitors came for Sansa.

And Sansa was exhausted of it. Twice wed, thrice betrothed, with nothing to show for it but scars running down her back and a quiet fear; Sansa would be content to spend the rest of her life living inside Winterfell, without the tension or anger or frustration that came with having a husband.

Which, perhaps, hadn’t been as easy a decision to make as it could’ve been. Sansa’d always wanted children, her own keep to run; but she’d learned her lessons with Ramsay, and with Joffrey. She might have been a little bit more snappish than usual about the whole thing, but certainly nowhere near the level everyone seemed to consider it.

And Arya, of course, had never had much patience for leaving things be as was healthy.

“Listen,” said Arya. “You’re _moping.”_

“I am _not,”_ said Sansa, impatient. They’d been going back and forth for nearly an hour, and she was tired of it. “You’re mistaking me for Jon.”

“Lot of people tell you that you look like him then?” Arya asked, utterly dry. 

“I don’t mope,” she insisted. “I-”

“-flounce, mayhaps. And go all red in the face, and tear up all the sewing, and stuff lemoncakes in your face-”

“How _dare_ you!” 

Sansa felt herself flush, hand clawing over the cloth she held- then she realized what she was doing, and straightened stiffly, wounded dignity dripping from her pores.

“I am the _heir_ to Winterfell,” said Sansa. “And I will not suffer your idiotic- _worries-_ when there’s no need to it!”

“You’re giving up a dream that’s been a part of you for years! Anyone with a head would treat that as painful, Sansa, and the only other person I know who’s as absolutely determined to be _miserable_ is Jon!”

“Miserable!” Sansa shrieked.

Arya’s eyes narrowed, and then she turned and walked away. Sansa huffed, and, as soon as she was certain that Arya wasn’t returning, turned away and hurled the embroidery she’d been working on across the room. The wooden circlet made a satisfying thunk against the far wall.

…

Jon tugged at his jerkin uncomfortably.

It was Arya’s idea; before that, he’d been thinking on going into the Wolfswood for a few weeks with Ghost by his side. But he’d done the disappearing act before and hadn’t felt one bit better. With the Others defeated, the world was getting warmer; and Jon was feeling more and more unnecessary.

Or perhaps just aimless. 

Same difference.

Arya and Bran did their best to involve him, but it was a losing battle. Jon had never had much interest in politics- and now, with no eldritch undead army to worry over, he couldn’t be arsed to care. The only person to truly make him feel anything was Sansa, and that was more frothing fury than anything else.

But according to Arya, she knew of the perfect way for him to pass the night- she’d spent so long trying to convince him that Jon had finally given in. They were on their horses, heading towards the Wolfswood, when she said, “It’s a woman.”

“What’s a woman?” Jon asked absently.

“The person you’re going to meet.”

“I- _what?”_  Jon levelled a deadly look at Arya, who only shrugged, unfazed.

“You’ve been acting ridiculous over the past week,” said Arya unrepentantly. “I’m just trying to make you feel better. And don’t worry- she’s not going to think anything bad of you. I also didn’t have to pay her to come, so that’s something.” She waggled her eyebrows. “It’s almost like people don’t actively avoid you, you know, if you’re a little nice to them.”

_“Arya!“_

“I mean it.” She nodded as they turned a corner in the path. “Just follow the sound of the water- we’re close enough. I’m heading back now. Don’t want to ruin the _surprise,_ yes?”

Jon’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, but he didn’t say anything as she rode back the way they’d come.

The clearing Arya had pointed out was obvious, when he got to it. There was even a cloth spread over the grass, a basket of food set neatly on top; the sun streamed down brilliantly. It was, altogether, more planning than he’d ever seen his sister do, up to and including her vengeance on the wildling who’d tried to steal her- something she’d forced Jon to swear never to tell Sansa.

There was one thing missing, however, and Jon felt his brows pull together- where was the woman Arya had expounded upon at such length? He strode over to the basket, and there- right on top- was a card of folded, obnoxious yellow.

He flipped it open, and nearly choked on his anger at the first, and only, line.

…

Sansa entered the clearing carefully.

Bran had agreed with Arya, an earnest, innocent look about his face- and Sansa would pinch his ears until they _bled_ when she got back to Winterfell, see if she wouldn’t- and so Sansa had gone to this meeting, shoulders high about her ears, fingers bunching the fabric of her skirts nervously.

As soon as she saw Jon, however, she felt all her tension fade in favor if irritation.

“Jon? What are you doing here?”

He turned around. In his hands was a paper painted a yellow bright enough to make anyone’s eyes bleed. His mouth was pursed into a thin line, and his eyes were bright with enough anger to shine purple.

“Read,” he said, and thrust the paper at her.

Sansa arched an eyebrow at his tone but took it nonetheless, smoothing it out. 

“May the two unhappiest people in Westeros enjoy each other’s company.” She looked up at him incredulously. “Is this your idea of a romantic card?”

“I didn’t want this,” Jon told her brusquely. “Not a bit. I didn’t even know that it was you!”

“Neither did I,” said Sansa.

Jon breathed out slowly and turned around, hands waving frenetically through the air. “If you’re _here,”_ he snapped into the air, clearly not addressing Sansa, “then I suggest you leave Winterfell right now, Arya.”

Sansa ignored him, heading towards the blanket. The basket on top was filled with actual food- she unwrapped a loaf of bread, and tore off a chunk, leaning back to allow the sunlight to spill over her face.

“-told me that you _didn’t bribe her-”_

There was a bottle of wine at the bottom. Sansa uncapped it and took a long sip.

“-keeping her in the dark’s the _same thing,_ you absolutely moronic child-”

It was fruity, she thought. Nowhere near as sour as the Night’s Watch seemed to enjoy.

“-and I will-” his ranting broke off as he turned and saw her. “What’re you doing?”

“Relaxing,” said Sansa, lifting the bottle of wine. She smiled lazily. “I think I’ve earned it, don’t you?”

“What?”

Sansa sighed. “We’ll get back to Winterfell soon enough,” she told him. “I’ll give Arya enough chores that she can’t so much as think about anything else for a couple weeks. But nothing’s going to happen with me getting mad right now, do you see? So- just relax. We can yell at Arya in a few hours.” Jon flushed, and she waved a hand sloppily, almost spilling the wine. “Or not, continue yelling if that’s really your heart’s desire.”

She leaned back once more, eyes dropping shut. A few minutes later, Sansa heard the thump of Jon seating himself beside her. She smiled, and, eyes still closed, extended the bottle of wine. Jon took it immediately.

…

They napped, for a time, exchanging the bottle of wine; then, they split the food between them. Sansa wasn’t quite sure what had happened- but they weren’t snapping at each other.

It had been a long, hard road here. They’d taken back Winterfell, but that had been only the beginning. Petyr had done his best to sow discord between Sansa and Jon, and while Sansa had done her best to support Jon, Jon himself hadn’t been so easygoing about it. The day Jon threatened to throw him out of Winterfell, Sansa had defended Petyr; Jon had gotten incandescently angry.

A week later, he’d left for the south; when he returned months later, Arya and Bran were back, and the armies of the dead were coming. Sansa, however, hadn’t been able to find it in herself to be anything more than polite to him.

But they were here, now, years later: and if it had been a hard road to walk, if they were both more than a little damaged for it, they at least understood each other.

“And did you _see_ Daenerys’ face?” Sansa asked, laughter bubbling up between in the spaces between her words, making her gasp, light-headed. “When her dragons refused to set foot in Winterfell? She made us meet her in Castle Cerwyn!”

“Only reason I didn’t start shouting right then was ‘cause I was imagining Clay Cerwyn’s answer,” replied Jon. 

Sansa snorted. “He kept silent when the Boltons skinned his own father- he didn’t so much as wait for the dragons to cast a shadow on his keep before fleeing.” Her lips twisted. “His poor wife had a time of managing the entire household. And Arya wasn’t of much help, let me tell you.”

“Why? Too threatening?”

“She refused to go anywhere without Nymeria,” said Sansa, eyes dark with humor.

Jon looked at her questioningly, and she sighed.

“Nymeria was in her- _season._ She tried to mate with the hounds.” She grinned. “I made it a point to complain every morning about how dogs were howling all night long. Arya couldn’t look me in the eye for _hours,_ I tell you- and she hasn’t insisted on bringing Nymeria to a diplomatic meeting ever since.”

Jon threw his head back and laughed, loud, booming, as she’d never seen before- she could count on her fingers the time’s he’d looked so carefree.

Sansa leaned forwards, threading her fingers through his. Jon looked at her, startled, and she let her smile soften into something truer.

“When we go back,” she murmured, “what do you say we play a game on them?”

…

They returned to Winterfell, and their linked hands got so many raised brows that Sansa was hard-pressed to keep from giggling. Jon, in a vain attempt to stop his own amusement from showing, had adopted such a stormy look on his face that it made her even more amused- to which he turned grimmer. It was a vicious cycle.

“You took longer than expected,” said Arya, as they approached the keep. Her smug smile only made Sansa grin wider.

Jon pulled away, leaves crunching under his feet as he turned, slowly, to meet Arya’s. 

“I’m going to kill you,” he said, perfectly pleasantly. Arya’s face went a little stiffer. “Or at least, you’re going to wish you were dead, by the time I’m _finished_ with you.”

She chanced a pleading look at Sansa.

“No, don’t look at me,” said Sansa, smiling placidly at her sister, the frosting from her lunch still smeared stickily across her fingers. “I’m just going to sit here and, oh, I don’t know, stuff my face with lemoncakes.”

Arya’s eyes narrowed, and she turned, meeting Jon’s gimlet gaze with a defiant one of her own. Sansa smiled and settled in for a good show.

...

**ii. pretend relationship**

Jon was a better actor than Sansa had expected.

He wasn’t very good at laughing on cue, but he was good at softening his gaze, at switching from a distance that could only be termed brotherly to something closer, more intimate. 

Arya hated it.

“You two are  _horrible,”_ she snapped. “I hate the both of you and I’ll never do anything like this again, just-”

“-you’re still in charge of rebuilding the southern wall,” Sansa told her flatly.

“I was  _going_ to say that I’d like it if both of you didn’t- I don’t know- kiss. In front of me.”

Sansa smiled, thin and spiteful, and turned towards Jon- he was standing across the yard, directing a few men through some training. She cast a look back at Arya, whose eyes narrowed disbelievingly, and felt the smile widen; then, Sansa crossed the middle of the yard, caught Jon’s sleeve, and when he turned to meet her, pressed her lips to his.

Dimly, she was aware of Arya tossing the metal buckets she’d been carrying to the ground; of the courtyard that had gone silent as a graveyard; of Jon’s own stiff-necked posture. But she also tasted something scarily like blood across the back of her throat. Something cold slithered across her spine, and Sansa pulled away fast enough that she felt a muscle pull in her neck.

“I- come inside,” she said, and cursed her tongue for its weight. “Once you’re done, I mean.”

Jon’s dark eyes measured her, and, slowly, he nodded.

…

It’d been a nice week after Arya’s prank. Jon had enjoyed himself far more than expected; Sansa was positively brilliant at turning all of her mannerisms flirtatious- even seemingly innocuous ones. 

So good, in fact, that Jon wasn’t sure where the act ended.

Their relationship had never been the-  _best._ For a time, he’d thought that they’d build a better one, especially after retaking Winterfell.

But then things had exploded, Jon had gone south, and by the time he came back Arya and Bran had returned. He’d not had the time to so much as breathe until the White Walkers were defeated, but after they were, after Daenerys insisted that he choose between his Targaryen or Stark heritage- Jon had returned to Winterfell. And when he had, Sansa had been so icily polite to him, and Jon hadn’t quite been able to forgive her for looking so much like her mother inside Winterfell. 

It took them years to say anything more than a greeting and a farewell to each other. Sansa had finally sniped something at him over breakfast, and Jon had retorted; Sansa hadn’t gotten teary-eyed, only tossed her napkin to the side and met his gaze, eyes flashing. 

For years, they’d built a relationship on being the last straw. There weren’t overmany feelings between them, and those that were treaded the edges of vague dislike, intentional irritability. 

But now, ever after Arya’s stunt, they hadn’t yelled at each other for over a week- and that, more than anything, seemed to be the thing that convinced Arya and Bran that they weren’t faking it.

The problem, in the end, was that Jon wasn’t sure where the line was. Sansa’s kiss that afternoon in the yard was a line he was quite sure she wasn’t ready to cross- the startled, doe-wide look in her eyes when she pulled them made that quite clear.

And Jon didn’t- he didn’t like Sansa, not in that way. Not as he’d liked Ygritte, or even Daenerys- Sansa was frustration, was anger hot enough to make him want to punch something, was as unchanging and eternal as the sun, the tides, as Winterfell’s walls. She’d been there forever, and would be there forever after.

Even on his most morose days, Sansa had been there beside them. She’d snarled, or rolled her eyes, or prodded him, and Jon had responded. It wasn’t- love. Or, at least, not that kind of love- for even if they didn’t like each other much, there would at least be love between them- but it was something he didn’t have with anyone else.

He sighed, and scrubbed a hand over his face. He’d washed, but the grime of the yard still clung to him. If Sansa had wanted to speak to him on an urgent matter, however, it’d be better to talk to her now, before he actually bathed.

…

Sansa stared at the letter.

The candles had almost burned down. The window she’d risen to close before reading the letter remained open, chilling the entire room. She exhaled slowly, fingers still clamped tight on the parchment.

A moment later, there was a knock on the door, and Jon entered.

“You wanted to talk to me?”

“I- yes,” said Sansa, heart still thrumming from the letter; she placed it flat on the table and summoned a smile towards Jon. “About what we ought to do next. I’m thinking we should put Arya-”

The smile was watery, her voice was wavering, and Sansa cursed herself to be a fool thrice over. She wasn’t surprised when Jon interrupted her. 

“What happened?”

“It’s just a letter.” Sansa waved a hand dismissively. “Nothing important.”

Jon arched an eyebrow. “About what?”

“Nothing,” repeated Sansa.

“Then can I read it?”

Sansa folded her arms over her chest. “Jon-”

 _“Sansa,”_ he said flatly.

She exhaled and handed the letter over. Jon took it. As he read, his brows pulled together, and Sansa tasted bile.

“If he brings his men here,” Jon said, tossing the letter onto the desk, “I’ll kill him.”

Sansa felt a flash of resentment at his words. She didn’t  _want_ to defend Petyr, never did and never would. And here Jon was, doing the same thing he always did. 

“We’ve had this conversation before,” she said evenly. “And you’re not the King any longer. When he comes-”

“You aren’t opening Winterfell to Petyr Baelish and his- Vale knights!” Jon said, outraged.

“I will do what I must, Jon,” Sansa said, voice going colder. “As I always have. As I always will.”

“By-”

“We’ve had this conversation before,” she stressed. “So why-”

“The man is an opportunistic backstabbing liar,” said Jon, louder. “I don’t understand why you’re-”

“-gods, there’s no point!” Sansa flung her hands in the air, feeling her face flush. “You never listen! I don’t know how many times we can rehash this, so I’m just going to walk away while I don’t feel like I need ten bottles of wine to deal with-”

 _“I_ never listen?”

Sansa’s nostrils flared. “Yes,” she said. “You don’t listen. You never have. And just because I find that unforgivable doesn’t mean that you get to-”

“-how _dare_ you-”

“You left!” Sansa shrieked, suddenly, loud enough to silence Jon. He drew back, and she clenched her fists, tried to bite her tongue; but it was like a flood: unstoppable. “You told me you’d protect me, you  _promised,_ and when it came down to it you weren’t there. You left, Jon, and when you returned you came with a woman who had three dragons. You  _brought dragons_ to the North, and when she told me to bend the knee you just  _stood_ there.”

“Do you know how long I spent telling her not to-”

“Burn me?” Sansa asked, voice high and strange. “Have her dragons gobble me up? I’m not going to thank you for that!”

Jon sighed, running a hand through his curls. “We needed her help.”

“And she needed ours,” she said. “You never did understand that. And I-” Sansa cut herself off, abruptly. When she spoke next, her voice was quieter, though not by much. “You’ve spent years inside of Winterfell, hating me. I accepted that, because I didn’t have a choice. But I won’t let you start a war just because you have some vestige of suspicion against another man.” She looked at him, directly, for the first time in their conversation. “So: if you can’t control yourself, go.”

He blinked at her. “You’re banishing me?”

“Until Petyr leaves.” Because she had to, but that wasn’t- well. Jon wouldn’t see it that way.

And, wonder of wonders, he didn’t.

“You’re picking  _Petyr Baelish_ over me,” he said, teeth gritting. “Let’s just be clear here about that, Sansa.”

“I am picking the North over you,” Sansa replied tightly. 

“I-”

“You’ll leave, but only if you cannot control yourself.”

He exhaled slowly and looked away. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he told her, finally. “There was a war on. I’m sorry for-”

Sansa shook her head. “You don’t have to apologize for something you don’t feel sorry for,” she said. 

“I  _do_ feel sorry for it!”

“Not until I threw it in your face,” Sansa pointed out. “Not until I bring it up.”

“Oh, so that’s not everything?” Jon demanded.

“No, that’s not  _everything,”_ she flared. “What about your Targaryen heritage?”

“You want me to apologize for that?”

“I want you to apologize for not telling me!” Sansa shouted, well and truly angry now. “For spending half a year in the south, training dragons and sleeping with a white-haired queen and throwing away your crown! For leaving me inside Winterfell with  _wildlings,_ whom I didn’t know, whom I didn’t trust, who didn’t trust  _me!_ For- for landing in the North, inside Castle Cerwyn, and staying silent while another woman bartered your crown away!”

“You don’t know-”

Sansa swallowed. “Daenerys Targaryen told every person inside that keep that I ought to be burned alive, and you just stood there, and when I told her that the North would be independent you stayed silent, and even after that, for almost a fortnight, you didn’t even look at me, much less speak to me, as if _I_ had been the one to do something unforgivable.”

“If we’re going to talk about faults, Sansa,” Jon shouted back, face just as red as hers, “then let’s talk about how you didn’t tell me that Bran and Arya were  _back!_ For just as long as I didn’t tell you about my heritage! I’d think that was important!”

“They came just a few days before news that you were coming south,” Sansa snapped. “It isn’t my fault-”

“And wasn’t Arya at the meeting?”

“Arya didn’t come until- the next day.” Sansa let out a long gasp of breath. Her chest felt tight, her cheeks overheated. “And I didn’t tell her what happened.”

Jon frowned, disbelieving. “Why?”

Sansa breathed in, out. Her chest still felt too small for her lungs, or perhaps too large for her gown. She stumbled away from Jon, towards the door.

He grabbed her arm. 

All the blood rushed away from her head. Sansa turned, dead white, to look at him, and Jon released her as if she’d burned him.

 _“Why?”_ He asked again.

“They’re your family,” Sansa said, not looking at him. “I don’t have the right to take that from them, not when everyone else has gone.” 

She didn’t bother to look at Jon as she left the solar.

…

Sansa tipped her head back, staring at the stars. Years had passed since the meeting, but Sansa could still remember the moment perfectly:  Daenerys’ pale hair, her dark, southron gown; the twist of her lips as she commanded Sansa to kneel.

Daenerys’ dragons had refused to land inside Winterfell, so she’d gone to Castle Cerwyn for the meeting. Sansa had arrived scarce an hour after she and Jon had landed in the courtyard- the dragons had been taken away, already.

It was the only reason why Sansa had survived.

Sansa had arrived in Castle Cerwyn with ten lords, and as Daenerys stepped out of the keep, she hadn’t knelt. 

 _Jon Snow has given up his crown,_ she’d said. _I am the Queen of Westeros, and you shall bend the knee to me._

Sansa could still remember, precisely, the way her eyes had skipped past Daenerys to Jon- she’d stared at him, for just a heartbeat, hoping she’d misheard. He’d only inclined his head, slowly.

But Bran was in Winterfell, Bran and Arya. Sansa had ten bannermen behind her who had crowned two kings, who’d tasted freedom for all of a few months before having it stolen from them.

And in the end, the crown wasn’t Jon’s to give up. If he’d gone so far as to offer it to this Targaryen queen, then Sansa wouldn’t hesitate to name him a bastard.

 _You may be Queen,_ Sansa had replied, _but there is no Northern queen. Jon Snow cannot give up a crown that is no longer his. The Starks are returned to Winterfell, Queen Daenerys; there is a true Winter King there. As his sister, I refuse to bend the knee to any false pretenders._

Daenerys had raged, had snarled, had threatened to burn the entire North to ashes. Sansa had borne her fury, had twisted into it and dug her hands deep. She was a Stark; here, at the end of it all, she would be a Stark, even if Jon had forgotten it. She hadn’t once looked at her cousin.

 _If you kill the Starks,_ Sansa had said, when Daenerys finished, _you will doom this world to the Others for your pride. I hope you relish your kingdom of the dead, my lady._

Arya had come the next day. Sansa’d had so many things to speak to Jon about- recriminations, secrets, laughter- and he hadn’t so much as glanced at her. Sansa hadn’t been able to forgive him for laughing with her sister and ignoring her, as if they were children once more.

In the end, they weren’t children any longer; these hatreds tended to pile up.

...

**iii. stuck together**

Jon yanked the ties around the neck of his rucksack in place firmly, and leaned down to place the sheets he’d tossed away back onto the bed. At the new angle, he saw the rough boots he’d forgotten to pack.

He cursed aloud, loudly, startling Ghost from his slumber.

“That’s not very lordly.”

“I’m not a lord,” replied Jon, turning to face Arya, who stood at the door.

She shrugged. “You were a king. I’d think you were worthy of a lordship, you know?”

He sighed and knelt, picking up the boots and folding the loose legs of the boots so they could easier fit into the pile. When he straightened, Arya was still there.

“What d’you want?” Jon grunted.

“Not me,” said Arya. “Bran- he wants to go over some numbers or something. Before you leave, I think.”

“Tonight early enough for him?”

She winced. “A bit earlier might be better. He has to talk about the stores we have then, with Sansa and the stewards- something about the Vale knights’ arrival.”

“Ah,” said Jon. “I’ll be certain to not overstay then.”

“Jon,” Arya sighed. He wasn’t sure what his face looked like, then, only that Arya took one look at it and started to backtrack. “No, nothing, I don’t- it’s just, you know, what _happened?_ You two looked so happy-”

“Things change,” said Jon, and walked away.

...

Sansa sighed as the door opened. 

“Bran, I’ve been waiting for nearly a half hour,” she began, only to cut herself off when she saw who was at the door.

Jon was staring at her as if he hadn’t ever seen her before, which was, admittedly, absolutely untrue; just because he’d refused to be in the same room as her for the past two weeks didn’t mean that he’d _never_ seen her- and then, just as abrupt as his entrance, he turned on his heel to walk back.

Sansa saw it coming a heartbeat before it happened. Her eyes widened, arm stretching out.

The wooden door slammed shut at the exact moment as Jon walked forwards, at precisely the right velocity to hit his nose. Jon wavered, and then stumbled backwards before finally toppling over. It was almost loud enough that Sansa didn’t hear the sound of the latch sliding into place.

She started forwards, concern outweighing both amusement and underlying awkwardness. Jon was leaning back against the ground, completely prone, hands cupping over his nose- he looked utterly ridiculous.

“Are you okay?” Sansa asked, bending over and prodding his arm. 

Jon hissed something out, muffled by his hands. When he remained in that position, Sansa reached out and tugged one hand away.

His nose looked- slightly crooked.

 _Better take care of that,_ she thought, and snapped the bone back into place.

Jon bucked at the feeling, chest hollowing out. After he’d calmed down, he glared at her; it didn’t do much, though, with his nose still bright red, his eyes watering, and him still prone against the ground.

“What the hell, Sansa?”

“If we’d waited for someone else to fix that broken nose,” Sansa replied, “you’d have had a very crooked nose, and I know precisely how vain you are about your looks-”

“You couldn’t get _Sam?”_ He demanded.

Sansa waved a hand. “Someone’s locked the door.”

“What.”

“I’m thinking it’s Arya,” she told him. “Or Bran, but most likely both.” She could barely stop herself from snorting when Jon gingerly ran his fingers across the bone. “Oh, don’t worry- your nose will be fine. I’ve snapped enough bones together, Jon, I know I didn’t mess this one up.”

“I thought we taught her not to interfere,” Jon commented, slowly sitting up. “I mean, making her completely rebuild the south wall isn’t the kind of thing you forget, you know?”

She shrugged. “Arya’s always been uniquely stubborn.” Her lips quirked. “She gets that from you, I think.”

“Or your mother.”

“Or my mother. She doesn’t have any lack of people to choose from.” 

Jon made an inarticulate sound in response, still struggling to sit up. Sansa’s eyes narrowed, slightly. 

She hadn’t meant to say as much as she did, before. Those were old grievances, and ones that she’d thought she’d moved past. But there was something in the way that Jon blamed _her,_ as if he wasn’t at fault- it lit a fire in her chest.

Sansa had made mistakes. She’d own up to them. What she wouldn’t accept was Jon’s proclamation of innocence. And until he accepted that, she wouldn’t offer her own apologies.

That, however, didn’t mean that Sansa would have to be constantly _belligerent._

“Anyhow,” she said, affixing a smile to her face, “when are you- leaving?”

“I was going to leave tonight,” he said, eyes dipping away. “Before this idiotic stunt, I mean.”

“I doubt Arya meant to break your nose.”

“Arya doesn’t _mean_ for a lot of things,” Jon replied dryly. “Things still, miraculously, happen.”

Sansa sighed and rose, turning towards the door. 

“Do you want to try to...” she waved a hand at the door.

Jon frowned. “Do what?”

“Break the door down?” Sansa arched an eyebrow. “You did that a couple years ago, didn’t you?”

“That,” he said, dignifiedly, “was because Arya was having a nightmare and was an absolute _idiot._  Also, I don’t doubt that Arya’s placed something significantly heavier in front of the door, and I don’t plan to dislocate my shoulder on top of breaking my nose today.”

That... sounded like her sister.

“I could pop it back in,” Sansa offered, and Jon snorted.

...

The silence was uncomfortable, enough to leave Jon itching to actually take a pass at breaking the door down. A dislocated shoulder would at least leave the two of them with _something_ to talk about, as opposed to this itching, tense quiet.

Jon hadn’t- he hadn’t meant to hurt Sansa. 

He’d watched Sansa enter Castle Cerwyn, had seen the horror writ across her face when she heard that he’d given up his crown; and then Sansa had swept herself tall, hair glittering bright as a banner, and told Daenerys that Jon wasn’t the King in the North, not any longer.

It’d been betrayal that Jon felt, when Sansa called him a bastard in all but name. He hadn’t been able to speak to her after that, not without feeling a peculiar mixture of shame, guilt, and anger; and Sansa hadn’t approached him either. 

And when he returned to Winterfell, having abandoned the south and Daenerys, while Arya and Bran embraced him, Sansa had simply watched, as disapproving and coldly haughty as Lady Catelyn. 

But that was all in the past- and more to the point, it wasn’t Sansa’s fault alone. Jon carried his own mixture of blame. It might have taken Sansa throwing it in his face for him to acknowledge it, but that didn’t mean he was incapable of doing so.

He sighed. 

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Sansa looked up from where she’d been hemming a gown, brows pulling together. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” said Jon, breathing out heavily. “I was- an ass. I didn’t think very much about you or anything other than the war, and... I was angry.” His shoulders lifted, almost helplessly. “Angry at you, and myself, and our situation, and you were the easiest to face.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Sansa told him, and Jon remembered how stiffly she’d told him not to apologize for something he didn’t feel sorry for a week previous.

“I don’t,” Jon told her, leaning back against the chair. “I’m not saying this because I owe you something. I never have. I never will.”

Even years ago, there had been something furious in Sansa’s pale face, her dawn-bright hair; something that filled the hollows that had lived inside Jon’s chest since being killed. Jon had been caught up in Sansa’s terrible wake, like a leaf floating behind a boat’s paddle. Even when Jon expected to die in the worst ways possible, even when he was so afraid, so _tired-_ there had been something that screamed of life in seeing Sansa, who always stood as undying and unbent as any weirwood tree.

“But it’s true,” Jon finished. “I’m apologizing because I owed you safety, and I didn’t offer it. I’m apologizing because I owed you kindness, and I offered you only grief. I’m apologizing because I owed you love, and all I gave you was anger.”

Jon wasn’t good with words; he was remarkable at fumbling with them, all told. 

But Sansa didn’t seem to care about his awkwardness, the way in which he stumbled over the syllables and hesitated; she blinked at him, and then placed her sewing aside and rose to her feet. She was of a height with him now; Jon could see, precisely, the way her eyes flicked between something bright enough to outshine the stars and something sharp enough to draw blood.

“And I should have told you of Bran and Arya,” she said quietly. “I shouldn’t have- avoided you, I know.” Her lips tipped upwards into a small smile. “I am sorry for that.”

“Sansa,” he said, softly, and she nodded, stepping closer to him. 

“Yes,” she whispered. One hand came up to cup his cheek, rubbing over his beard; Jon shuddered at the contrast between her skin and his own. “Yes, Jon.”

They hadn’t spoken of it, not ever. This attraction that lay between them like a weighted stone- they’d never once even breathed of it. There had been nights when Jon went to bed, drunk out of his mind, and dreamed of a girl: too bright to be Ygritte, too tall to be Daenerys. There had been mornings when he saw Sansa, backlit by the morning sun, eyes glittering, and felt something balloon in his chest. He hadn’t once so much as imagined that Sansa had felt the same, but then she’d laced her fingers through his in a small clearing next to a river and grinned. 

Jon swallowed, hard, and kept his eyes wide, wide open when Sansa leaned in.

Their first, proper kiss was soft- soft enough that Jon scarce felt it. The second was longer. On the third, he threaded his fingers through her hair, brought the other hand to her waist, and kissed Sansa, properly.

She made a thin, high sound when he pulled away. Sansa’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes wide and dark, and there was a smile curving her lips.

Jon grinned back, and leaned in to kiss her once more-

-only for the door to burst open.

“Oh my _gods,”_ Arya wailed, “do you have to do it _all_ the time?”

Sansa strangled an irritated sound in the back of her throat, just soft enough that Jon could barely hear it. He felt his initial irritation fade into laughter at the sound, and hid his smile in the curve of her neck, and then turned, arching an eyebrow at Arya and Bran.

“You began this,” he said, and though just a few hours previous he would have meant _this is your fault,_ right then Jon could only think:  _thank you._

_..._

**iv. proposal/engagement**

“The Vale needs a woman’s touch,” Petyr said, grey eyes still as gleaming and mocking as ever. “When I spoke to you last, you believed yourself to be the last Stark- and now, it turns out that you are not. What need have you to remain inside Winterfell?”

Sansa bit her tongue. _This is my home,_ she thought. _You’ve certainly said that enough times. Now, you want me to trot behind you, meek as any shadow? I think not._

“I belong to the North,” she said, evenly. 

“Sansa,” Petyr said, turning, placing his hands flat on her shoulders. Sansa breathed in, and didn’t flinch away. “You must know that what happened before was an accident. The wildlings blew it out of proportion, you were there-”

“Yes,” said Sansa. “I was.” She pulled away from him. “I was there the day you decided that you’d spent enough time in the North. I was there the day you decided that you wished to return to your home. I was there, the day you decided that I would accompany you there. My memory is fine, Lord Baelish, but might I remind you of what happened the last time you thought yourself in the best position to make decisions on my behalf?”

He flushed, and Sansa kept herself very straight, very stiff. 

“I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell,” she told Petyr, calmly, grimly, inexorably. “I am the eldest daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark, and my blood will inherit the North. I am from the North, _of_ the North, and as much as I regret it, I must decline all invitations to leave.”

_I have seen what happens to Starks that go south._

Petyr’s eyes narrowed. Sansa waited him out.

“You don’t regret it.”

“When I have sworn to never travel south of the Neck?” Sansa forced her voice level. “I don’t. Not one bit.”

“I have given you an army,” he said, quiet enough that Sansa felt prickles run up her spine. 

The courtyard they walked in was one of many that were destroyed; during the day, children used the rubble as hiding places and in their games- but in the night, the ruins felt colder, haunted. They had moved far enough that the shouting and celebrations from the feast hall were muted.

“You have,” said Sansa.

“I have rescued you from the Lannisters.”

“Yes.”

“I have offered you food, warmth, safety-” Petyr turned, stepped away from her, “-and this is how you would repay me?”

Sansa remembered the way Jon had apologized, the way he had listed his faults out, unflinching. She remembered the warmth that Jon had always given her, even when all she felt was unbridled rage. Jon had only ever wanted her to be happy. 

Petyr had only ever wanted her to be his.

“You rescued me from the Lannisters because I was the heir to the North,” said Sansa. “If anyone else inside these walls knew what you had attempted here, they would have slit your throat. I _am_ repaying your kindness, Lord Baelish: I am protecting your life.”

Out of the shadows, a pale wolf padded forwards. Sansa smiled, and let her hands rest on Ghost’s muzzle before lifting her head to meet Petyr’s gaze.

“I have been very patient with you,” Sansa said softly. “I’d suggest you leave my home before I run out of it.”

For the first time in their history, Sansa saw Petyr pale at what he saw in her eyes. She kept herself even, kept herself calm, and waited for him to stumble out of sight before relaxing.

“Thank you, Ghost,” she told him. “You were wonderful.”

“I think that was me,” said Jon, stepping out of the same rubble that Ghost had come from.

Sansa buried her face in Ghost’s fur for a moment, and then turned towards Jon, laughing helplessly. 

“You were there the whole time?”

“My restraint was admirable.” He stepped forwards and tugged on her plait, playfully; his eyes, however, were solemn. “Are you alright?”

“I-” Sansa exhaled, slowly, and then nodded. “Yes. I am. It wasn’t so bad as I thought it might have been.”

“As what might have been?”

“Telling Petyr to leave.”

He snorted and then, slowly, seated himself, legs stretching out in front of him. The starlight caught the edges of his curls, turning them gilt-silver; Sansa smiled and ran a finger through them.

“What happened?” He asked lowly. “With Petyr?”

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be much of a secret,” Sansa pointed out.

Jon sighed. “If I swear not to kill him-”

“-you’ll also have to promise not to tell anyone else.”

 _“Fine,”_ he said, a touch irritable. “I promise.”

“He... got tired of waiting.” Sansa lifted one shoulder, graceful. “After you left for the south, he wanted to leave Winterfell, so he started packing- and he packed my things as well. He only told me what he’d done the morning that they were supposed to leave. That _we_ were supposed to leave, I suppose.”

Jon’s hands clenched, the knuckles white, but he didn’t say anything else.

“The wildlings found out through some servant girl,” she continued, wrapping her arm around the crook of his elbow and leading him towards the feast hall. “They stormed the castle. One of them- she threatened Petyr, though I’m not quite sure with what, precisely; but he left that day. And he never came back.”

“Is that why the spearwives like you so much?” Jon asked, looking startled.

Sansa ducked her head, smiling. “They like me because I helped them out later,” she said. “The best they could’ve hoped for was the Gift; but I insisted that we give them the Dreadfort and the Last Hearth. They’re rather happy about that. Though they’re happy about this, too.”

They walked past the feast hall; Sansa wasn’t yet ready to laugh and dance in there. Instead, she found her feet taking her towards the godswood. She felt something uncurl in her chest, Jon’s arm warm in hers, his solid body braced beside her- like a bloodflower’s petals at dawn, cool and smooth and not shaking, not even a bit.

...

“I’m going to sic Ghost on him,” said Jon, under the godswood’s leaves.

Sansa, who’d been running a hand across the surface of one of the pools, jerked upright. 

“You promised!” She said.

“Not to kill him,” Jon pointed out. “Ghost won’t do much, I promise. I mean, what does the man need a limb for, right? Or two, or three-”

 _“Jon,”_ said Sansa, and he tipped a look over to her.

She sighed at whatever she saw in his face, coming over to sit beside him and nudging him until he shifted on the trunk. One thigh pressed against the side of his, a hot line that left prickles running down Jon’s spine.

Thus far, they’d kissed and embraced. Mostly, Sansa had begun them. It wasn’t even half of what Jon had done with Ygritte, less than a fourth of what he’d done with Daenerys; but these felt more significant. There was something about falling in love inside Winterfell that erased the hurried, harried attraction that had marked his previous- liaisons. 

They had _time,_ was the point. Something Jon hadn’t imagined he’d ever have, not after seeing the Others.

They had time, perhaps, but Petyr Baelish wasn’t who he was without a reason. Jon sighed and rubbed his forehead with his knuckles. They had to act as necessary: Petyr was perfectly capable of starting a war for his pride if he felt it possible that he could get Sansa.

He didn’t feel they were ready. But after these past few weeks- Jon felt that they would _become_ ready, sometime in the future, and it wasn’t so impossible as he’d once dreamed.

“Sansa,” he said, ducking his head, running a hand through his hair. Something that was two parts apprehension to one part fear thrummed in time to his heart inside him, and Jon felt his mouth dry at it. “He’s not going to stop.”

She sighed. “I’ve done all that I can do,” she told him. “Without making a public affair of it all...”

“That’s not what I meant.” Jon glared at the moon’s reflection on the pool, too bright and whole by far. “He’s the kind of man that- if he thinks he can still marry you, have you- he’ll do it. He’ll pick battles and arrange the pieces and start a war, see if he won’t.”

“He’s perfectly capable of it,” Sansa agreed. 

“So,” said Jon, turning and capturing her hands in his, making sure he looked directly at her eyes, “marry me.”

Sansa’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, white showing all round the delicate rose-blue. 

“Not,” Jon hastened to add, “like- that. Just announce that we’re planning it publicly, I meant. We can have the actual wedding later. Or- maybe-” he cut himself off when Sansa bent over herself, shoulders shuddering. 

Jon maybe slightly panicked at the gleam of tears along her palms.

“It’s just to send him away!” He assured her, skating his hands along her shoulderblades helplessly. “I didn’t mean to-”

“Three betrothals,” Sansa gasped, finally getting a hold of herself. “Three betrothals, Jon, and two weddings, and both weddings made against my will. And _still,_ none of them were so terribly awkward as you.”

“I didn’t-”

“But, yes,” she said, and smiled, wide, true, brighter than the moon shining down on them.

There was time. Jon felt something crack away in his heart, like a ice shelf finally giving way, finally melting. He breathed in, out. There was time, to learn and love and accept each other. 

They had time.

This time, it was Jon’s turn to kiss her.

...

**v. author’s choice (confessions)**

Sansa leaned forwards, close enough that she could see the purple flecks in Jon’s dark eyes, lips bruised from hours spent kissing. The sun was rising, dawn spreading like a blanket over them both, and the rest of the world felt very far away, felt very unimportant.

“I love you,” she said, and though it might have been terrifying, though it _should_ have been terrifying-

It wasn’t.

**FIN**


End file.
